A Friend in Need
by blogyourfeelings
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is finding his new army of fans rather distracting. And who does he often turn to in times of need? Molly Hooper, of course.
1. Chapter 1

Authors note; Posted this on AO3 the other day and stupidly forgot to upload it here.

Hope you enjoy this and I would love to hear your thoughts :)

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><p>"I cannot stand this for another second," Sherlock complains, flouncing away from his window with an air of disgust. "It's akin to torture. Worse than being forced to spend a day locked in a room with Anderson."<p>

"Drama Queen," Mary sings under her breath.

"Have you tried just asking them to leave?" Molly asks, turning her head from the take-away food on the table to Sherlock pacing the living-room like a caged animal.

"Every-time I try to say anything, they start screaming," Sherlock scowls. "It's very off-putting."

"That's because they're your_ fans_," Greg Lestrade says, wiggling his eyebrows as he grins.

"Fans," Sherlock scoffs. "I do not want fans."

"Yes, you do," John fires back as he pours a mountain of noodles onto his plate.

Sherlock stalks back to the window, as if convinced in the past minute, he's produced the power to somehow will away the crowd of women and men outside Baker Street. Damn Janine and those ridiculous, far-fetched articles. It was all the Irish woman's fault, her exaggerated stories of his sexual prowess were the catalyst for a media furore, and a resulting influx in 'Detective Shag-a-lot' fans. The faux Moriarty ploy, which had proved to be nothing more than rogue group with an infliction for James Moriarty, had also increased the media attention around Baker Street. John's blog was now in the company of hundreds of blogs about Mr Sherlock Holmes and his cases. Some were slightly more gushing than the army doctor's, some were disturbingly more…. _graphic. _A more dedicated band of fans had taken it upon themselves to camp out at Baker Street, rain or shine, shouting professions of love, holding signs. It was all very distracting.

To Sherlock's chagrin his fans are still out there, some chatting merrily, some idly reading or checking their phones. They're just waiting, _constantly waiting_ for him and it was driving him mad.

"They seem nice," Molly offers, fiddling with her fork. "Didn't cause us any trouble on the way in, did they Mary?"

"No, they just said how cute Elizabeth is," Mary says, leaning down to her sleeping daughter in her carrier, stroking her pink cheek.

"Ugh," Sherlock groans, turning again to prowl around the circumference of living-room. "I have to find a way to get rid of them."

"You're not going to be rude, are you?" Molly asks, a frown across her pretty face.

"I tried rude, it didn't work. I tried ignoring them, it didn't work. Nothing works." Sherlock grumbles, kicking his foot against his chair, his agitation spilling over.

"Why don't you ask Mycroft to deal with it? Threatening them with life in prison should do the trick," John jokes, eyes gleaming as he steals a prawn cracker from the centre of the table. Sherlock had invited them to Baker Street under the pretence of friendly dinner, but it was becoming clear to them all he had an ulterior motivation for gathering them in 221B.

Sherlock falls back onto his chair, glaring over at the table of his friends enjoying their take-away. "He thinks it's hilarious," Sherlock sneers. "Revenge for all the fat jokes and musicals I refused to intend with our parents."

John only nods in response, not surprised by the pettiness of the Holmes brother's fueds.

"They like you," Molly says softly, her brown eyes grasping his full attention. She looks away, stabbing her fork into a spring roll before speaking again, "Is that such a terrible thing?"

"They're distracting. I can't work, can't leave the flat without them or the press following me," Sherlock says, his hands drumming against the arm of his chair.

John chuckles. "We were on a case last week and one shouted out her affection for certain parts of Sherlock's…anatomy. He went as red as tomato. And then there was that guy who-"

"That's quite enough, John," Sherlock interrupts, standing up abruptly to join them at the crowded table.

John was grinning rather wolfishly, eyes flashing to Greg and Molly to reassure them he'd finish that particular story another time.

Greg laughs despite not hearing the end, his imagination doing all the work for him. "Mate, we've all read the stories. Eight times in Baker Street… you can hardly blame people for being interested."

"Perhaps I should inform them that the reports of my sexual appetite were fabricated," Sherlock muses, elbows leaning against the table.

"Can we not talk about your sex life while I'm trying to eat?" John questions, scrunching up his nose but still happily shovelling the food into his gaping mouth.

"Plus, that would only work if all of them were actually interested in having sex with you," Mary says, her eyebrow tilting at the detective.

"I have collected enough evidence to suggest this is the case," Sherlock responds loftily, though Mary is certain she spots a flush of pink across his cheeks.

"Try talking to one of them for five minutes and I'm sure any attraction to you will quickly disappear," Greg teases.

"I wish it were that simple," Sherlock gripes.

"I don't understand the attraction myself," John says, his lips drawn upwards into a cheeky tilt. "Mate, you just need to lay low. No more stories in the papers about your supposed wild antics. You need to be off the market, so to say. Unavailable for public consumption."

Molly-who had been rather quiet during this exchange- cannot help but crinkle her nose at the phrase.

"Off the market," Sherlock echoes, mulling over the word for a moment. "Oh!" He exclaims. "John, you are genius! A genius! How did I not think of this before?"

"Think of what?" Mary is the first to ask, though all of them appear eager to discover the great detective's latest grand plan.

"I need to be off the market," Sherlock says firmly, shifting his gaze to each person at the table, as if he expects them all to understand.

"Oh god," Mary mutters, the quickest to catch on to the meaning of his words.

"Molly," Sherlock says, smooth as silk, turning his gaze to the small woman sitting next to him.

She recognizes the tone immediately and his previous words click in to place. "Absolutely not! Not a chance, Sherlock Holmes."

Her first mistake is choosing to glance up at the detective. A pair of wide, pleading blue eyes fix on her, imploring her with their largeness to agree to his ridiculous plan which will no doubt end in disaster. And heartbreak, quite possibly, for his adoring fans and her.

Sherlock takes hold of her small hand in his, eyes still blazing into hers. Molly's eyes flicker to the rest of table; Mary cringing into her hand, John and Greg's perplexed expression searching for answers.

"Molly," Sherlock says, his baritone voice deepening purposefully. _Persuadingly._ "Will you be my girlfriend?"


	2. A Lose Lose Situation

Tried to post this the other day, but FF and my laptop do not seem to want to co-operate!

Well, anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter lovelies!

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><p>"For the one hundredth time, Sherlock, <em>no,<em>" Molly says, emphasizing her annoyance by loudly dumping the paperwork she was holding onto her desk. The papers spread out and Molly frowns down at mess before directing her scowl at Sherlock. "Now leave me alone, I have work to do."

"I'll never understand why they insist on numbing a mind like yours with all this dull paperwork," Sherlock mutters, reaching over her desk to straighten out the papers as he glares down at piles of white in disdain.

"Thank you," She acknowledges his help softly, because despite her frayed nerves, she still has manners.

Molly huffs down onto her seat, swiping away any nuisance hairs that could provide her a distraction and sets her mind to work. This paperwork had been mounting for weeks, put off not by laziness on her part, but just a lack of time.

Sherlock hadn't been particularly helpful over the past week. His idea was denounced by all who heard it and Molly had made it crystal clear that under no circumstances would she partake in his plan. She, the Watsons and Greg were still laughing about when they had left Baker Street that night- Molly utterly bemused by Sherlock's gall and certain that the idea had been thoroughly dismissed.

It becomes evident quickly that she is mistaken. Firstly, he invades her flat with the claim that a murderer could get away if she doesn't allow him to stay. In reality, all that happens is he defaces her colourful bedroom walls with pictures of a brutal, bloody murder and stuffs his face with her good biscuits. Days later and she's _still_ trying to rid her mattress of pesky crumbs.

When she made it known that his presence in her flat was becoming unwelcome, the persisting buzz of her phone from texts from the detective then begins to drive her loopy. It's constant barrage of communications, some of which were pleading, others were scornful updates of the latest antics of his fans.

**_They're singing, Molly. Why are they singing? -SH _**

**_MOLLY. -SH _**

**_I will not be held accountable for my actions if this should continue. -SH _**

There were hundreds more, piling up over the week until Molly was tempted to flush her phone down the toilet or burn the god forsaken device just so she could get just one blissful moment of peace.

The world's only consulting detective appears to be determined to stop that ever happening and is now resorting to bothering her at work. "Molly."

Ignoring him, Molly jots down scribbled notes. Sherlock's fingers drum an angry rhythm against her desk.

_"Molly."_

The rustling of paper, along with Molly's humming, are the only noises that fill her cramped office. This, of course, does nothing to dissuade Sherlock.

_"Molly."_

A sigh erupts from Molly. "Will you please stop?" The pathologist pleads, running her hands through the roots of her hair. Under different circumstances, she adores hearing her name spoken out his pretty mouth, his voice deep and rich, but at this given moment, she would pay him never to say it again.

Sherlock reclines back into his chair, smirking. "It's irritating being unable to concentrate isn't it?"

"Sherlock," She growls, gripping her pen hard. She's more used to handling scalpels and bonesaws, but she's certain she could do plenty damage with just a pen.

This man isn't called the Great Sherlock Holmes for nothing. Janine had also referred to him in her infamous interviews as 'a total bastard' and Molly finds herself whole-heartedly agreeing with the Irish woman's assessment. His ability to discern a person's weak spot meant he knew all the right buttons to press and when to do so. How to simultaneously irritate someone and yet somehow evoke a sense of empathy at the same time.

"What?" Sherlock says innocently, a pair of wide, oceanic eyes not flinching away from her dark glare.

"I see what you're trying to do here," Molly says, placing her pen down and resting her elbows on her desk. As long as Sherlock is being distracted by the group outside Baker Street and the media accompanying them, he would be here, or in her flat, moaning and making her life as miserable as his. It's a lose lose situation and he has left her with little choice. "You win. I'll do it. I'll be your fake girlfriend." She sighs, giving in, and in her humble opinion, she deserves an award for lasting this long.

"Excellent," Sherlock triumphs, that terrifying angelic smile on his face as he claps his hands together in victory. Molly already has a sinking feeling she's just signed herself up for a whole load of trouble. "I'll be waiting at your flat tonight and we can discuss the plan."

"Fine, fine," Molly agrees dismissively, waving him off. The anticipation of the silence she's been craving all week makes her increasingly impatient. "Now go away before I change my mind."

Sherlock makes his way round to her side of the desk, looming over her chair. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," He says, his cool blue eyes gazing down at her fiercely. Leaning down, he smacks a kiss at the corner of her mouth before rushing off, curls bouncing and coat billowing as he goes.

By the burning of her reddening cheeks evoked by just a simple, chaste kiss, and the quickening of her hammering pulse at his close proximity; Molly concludes that perhaps agreeing to be Sherlock Holmes's pretend girlfriend is the most brilliant_ and_ the most idiotic decision she's ever likely to make.


	3. Look of Love

"I'm an idiot, I know, you don't have to tell me," She says into her mobile, trying desperately to wave down a cab. Which should not be that hard considering she's situated in London, but it appears bad luck is plaguing her today as another black taxi whizzes past her, splashing dirty rain water all over her new, _expensive_ coat.

A feminine laugh sounds over the noise of the passing traffic. "You're not an idiot," Mary replies carefully. "But this plan is idiotic."

"I know that," Molly snaps, and immediately regrets her quick words. Mary doesn't deserve to be at the end of her fraying temper. "Sorry. Sherlock's been driving me crazy all week. I should be snapping at him, not you."

"It's all right," Mary reassures, but Molly still feels the guilt settle in her stomach. Plans of a nice girl's lunch during the week materializes in her head to make up for being such a grump. Some nice food, and possibly some alcohol, could help improve her mood as well.

Finally, just as her arms begin to ache, a taxi pulls to a halt in front of her. Climbing in, and giving the driver instructions, she continues her rant to her friend on the other end of the line. "And all I want is a warm bath and to watch some crappy telly, but no, I get to come home to Sherlock to talk about this absurd plan."

"You could come over to ours?" Mary offers. She adds, in a sing song voice, "I have wine."

"That sounds so tempting," Molly considers, before sighing. "But he'd find me eventually."

Mary laughs at the serious tone of her pathologist friend's voice. "Oh Molly. God help you, you know what Sherlock's like when he gets an idea in his head..."

"He becomes a complete and utter nightmare," Molly grumbles, her eyes following the path of the London streets. "Maybe I should write a blog about what a prick he is, see if that helps get rid of his followers."

"I doubt it. Sherlock's faults are pretty well documented," Mary starts, before hesitating. "And you know it yourself… he's hard not to love, even when he's being a prick."

Molly can see in the reflection of the window her mouth forming in to the tiniest hint of a smile. "Yeah, you're right," She admits. Catching sight of her street, she sighs heavily before steeling herself for whatever would be waiting for her in her flat. "I gotta go, Mary. Wish me luck."

"You don't need luck, my dear," Mary says, her voice evoking a motherly calmness. "If anyone knows how to handle Sherlock Holmes, it's you."

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><p>Mary Watson is mystery to Molly- she knows there's more to the story than she's previously been told- but she accepts the unknown about the woman she's grown close to over the past few months. Because what she <em>does<em> know with certainty is that Mary is a very good friend. She's always on hand with supportive words, always willing to give her a verbal kick up the arse if she needs it.

She repeats her blonde friend's inspiring last words as she jingles her keys into the lock of her flat door. Taking a deep, relaxing breath, she recites the words in her head like a sacred prayer. _If anyone knows how to handle Sherlock Holmes, it's you._

Swinging the door open, she tiptoes carefully down her hallway, hoping against all hope that Sherlock has decided to give her the night off from his constant presence.

Alas, no. "Good evening, Molly," Sherlock greets, peering up from his place on the couch. In_ her_ seat, with _her_ purring cat perching on his lap, munching on _her_ biscuits.

"Right, that is it," She snaps, a weeks with of frustration spewing out. "If we're going through with this ludicrous plan, we're doing it my way or not at all."

Sherlock begins to open his mouth to protest, then thinks better when he spots the raw determination in her eyes. The detective is an expert at picking his battles and this one he instinctively knows he will not win. He gives a begrudging nod and concedes, "Fine."

"Good. To start off, we'll need to act like we're together," She says, a plan beginning to draw up in her mind. She needed more time and copious amounts of sleep before the plan would be fully formed. "We'll need to practice, but we'll save that for another day."

Sherlock's brows knit together. "Practice?"

"Yeah, you know, looking like a couple," She clarifies. "Let's try something easy just now."

"Okay," Sherlock responds, suddenly looking unsure, his eyes watching her warily as she moves to sit next to him on the couch. Shooing away Toby, who looks rather disgruntled to be parted with the detective's lap, she turns her body to face him.

"Right now you're looking at me as normally would," She says, her voice taking the instructive tone it has when she's talking to her students in the morgue. Her voice lowers as she stares into the blue- green hues of his eyes. "Now look at me like you're in love with me."

Sherlock's expression remains unchanged, blinking slowly, but all else stays the same.

"At least try," She implores, sounding more like a scornful mother.

"I am trying," Sherlock snaps back, offended by her slights on his effort. His arms cross over in a huff, lips pursing in thought, as he shifts away from her.

"Let's leave it tonight, okay? I'm starving," She tells him, heaving herself off the couch and heads purposefully in the direction of her kitchen.

"I brought you Chinese. It's in the microwave," Sherlock mutters from behind her.

Molly spins back to the couch, narrowing her eyes at him in suspicion. "You brought me dinner?"

"Yes, as a small apology," Sherlock replies, his clasped hands laying on his lap, looking oddly contrite.

"What, for eating all my biscuits?" She teases, a genuine smile gracing her face.

"That and a few other things," Sherlock admits, his eyes gleaming a pale blue and he's giving her _that_ look. The one that convinced her to risk her job to save him, the one that haunted her into eventually ending her engagement, the one that still makes her want to_ weep._

Slipping away into the kitchen, Molly tries very hard not to mull on the thought that if he were any other man, she would call _that_ the look of love.


	4. Honesty

"Stop fidgeting."

Molly puffs out a breath at Sherlock's barked command. "I can't help it." She scowls at the curly haired detective, her nerves making her all the more snappy.

"We are going to walk from the door to the cab, Molly. It's hardly difficult," he drawls out his instructions, pacing the length of his living room in long strides. "I will put my hand on the small of your back as we're walking. That will suggest we are comfortable with physical intimacy…"

"And spark the idea we might be a couple," she interrupts in a monotone voice. She knew the ins and outs of the plan, but that didn't make it easier to undertake. Molly continues to play with a loose thread on her cherry cardigan. All the while, she can feel Sherlock's heavy gaze on her face.

"You're uncomfortable with the deceptive element of this plan," he deduces, and there's no judgement or disdain in his tone. It's just a plain statement of fact.

Her lips twitch upwards. "Yes, a bit," she admits. She wasn't a terribly bad liar, and Molly knew fine well that honesty wasn't always the best policy, but she often felt a heavy burden of guilt whenever she was untruthful. Honesty was something she valued deeply, as a quality of her own and in others.

"You have proven yourself a very capable liar, Molly," He tells her, and she thinks that's a very Sherlock-esqe compliment.

"That was different," she reminds him softly. "I did what I did to keep you safe. To keep John and Greg and Mrs Hudson safe."

The lies and deception involved in faking Sherlock's death were not an easy feat for Molly. She'd suffered through the aftermath in a way Sherlock hadn't. Yes, he'd witnessed the stark, raw pain of his nearest and dearest at his grave shortly after, but he hadn't been there to see the long, sapping affects of the months to follow. Grief was the most paralyzing of emotions. Guilt, Molly had found, was nearly as crippling.

"Think of this as a way of ensuring my sanity, Molly," Sherlock reasons, a smirk in place to communicate to her he's trying to lighten her mood.

Molly takes the bait, smiling back. "Always the drama queen," she teases.

Sherlock stares at her for a long moment, his eyebrows furrowing. He moves to sit next to her on the big couch and leans towards her, the intensity never leaving his eyes. "If I'm asking too much of you -"

"No!" She exclaims, and she's not entirely sure why she's so quick with her denial. Her reluctance to this plan had been obvious from the beginning, but some part of her, some tiny hidden part she couldn't shove away, was interested to see what it would be like to be Sherlock Holmes' girlfriend. Even just for a day. "You know I'd do anything for you, Sherlock," she said, her voice a bit shy, and she offers him another smile that's a bit cheekier than the last. "If you ask nicely enough."

"You're too good to me, Molly Hooper," he reveals, and there's a strange sadness in his eyes that immediately causes Molly's gut to clench.

"Occasionally," she jokes awkwardly, trying to lessen the thick unease in the room. She checks her watch quickly, partly to escape the unsettling emotions brewing in Sherlock's usually steely gaze, partly because during the midst of this conversation she'd completely lost track of time. "We should go. The corpses won't mind if I'm late, but I think Mike might."

"Yes. Good. _Good._ The taxi should be here any minute," Sherlock mutters, breaking out of his thoughts, his eyes brightening. Springing up, he stalks over to the coat rack, holding out her new grey wool coat, helping her to slip it on quickly.

"Thank you," she says in response to the gentlemanly gesture.

Sherlock, ignoring her gratitude, merely grabs his own coat and tugs it on as he heads out the door. All Molly can do is hurry after him.

"There will be about fifteen people outside. A mix of fans and photographers. My recent case was rather dull, but the newspapers seem to be interested," Sherlock rattles out, finishing his sentence off with a roll of his eyes. He stops just before the tall, foreboding door, glancing at her sideways. "There may be some shouting."

"Okay."

"Possibly screaming."

"Sherlock - "

"On occasion there has been some crying."

_"Sherlock,"_ Molly snaps, trying to stop his ramblings. She just wants to get this over with."I can handle it. Let's go."

Sherlock swings the door open at her command, letting her out first, but sticking close to her, his hand resting calmly and firmly on her back. Molly tries to keep her head down - as Sherlock had instructed her earlier - but the barrage of noise, the clicking of cameras, the shrieked shouts of Sherlock's name seem to surround them. It's suffocating.

The large hand on her back curls around her waist protectively, pulling her tightly against him and ensuring she is safely bundled into the waiting taxi first. He's not far behind, sliding into the seat next to her with enviable composure. It shouldn't really surprise her that he handles such a high pressure situation with grace and poise, despite the ferocity of the baying mob of reporters desperate for his attention.

"Are you all right?" He enquires, his darting eyes frantically searching her face for distress.

"Yes," she assures, though she can feel the loud_thump-thump-thump_ of her heart thudding in her chest.

"It's not usually that bad," he muses, ruffling his hair. "Must be a slow news day."

Molly glances back as the car turns out of Baker Street, frowning. That was more than just a slow news day. "What was that case you were working on yesterday?"

"Oh, it was barely a three. Poisoning disguised as a drug overdose," Sherlock recalls in a bored voice. "Tory politicians make dull murderers. Though that hardly comes as a surprise."

Molly's mouth gapes open. "A Tory politician?!"

"Yes. Lord something? I deleted it. A Cabinet member, so Mycroft tells me," Sherlock told her, his tone dry. "Boring."

"You solve a murder committed by one of the most powerful men in the country and you're surprised the newspapers are interested?" Molly asks, her tone incredulous. As proud as he is of his superior intellect, Sherlock rarely takes the time to acknowledge how brilliant his work is on a human level.

Sherlock sighs and shoots her a displeased look. "I'm merely doing my job, Molly. The papers wish to present me as heroic figure worthy of admiration. I reject that notion entirely."

"Your work is worth admiring, Sherlock," Molly counters, placing her hand gently on the sleeve of his Belstaff, careful to avoid his skin. He doesn't pull away from her touch, so she gathers the courage to offer him a kind smile. "It brings a lot of families peace."

"The same could be said for your work, Molly," he huffs, his stare lifting from her face to glare out onto the passing streets. "But you don't have a crowd outside your home."

Her hand lifts from his sleeve to playfully poke his arm in an attempt to gain back his attention. It is also intended to draw him out of the sour mood he'd slipped in to before they'd even left Baker Street. He's always so good at brightening her days, reading her moods and adjusting to them, that she often wishes she could have the same uplifting effect on him. "I don't have someone to blog about my ridiculous antics," she teases, biting down on her lip to suppress her grin.

One side of Sherlock's mouth pulls upwards, and his eyes glow a lively electric blue as the bright afternoon light reflects in them. "John's free for hire," he quips back, and she takes that as a small victory.

"I mean it, Sherlock," she reiterates, brown eyes imploring him to listen and take heed of her words. Molly knows that Sherlock is a master of repression when it comes to his feelings. But that doesn't mean he doesn't feel hurt and doubt and insecurity. He just hides it better. "You use your genius in a very unselfish way. To me, that's admirable," Molly marvels, her dark eyes brimming with an adoration that Sherlock cannot bare to break away from.

His eyelashes flutter quickly, as if he's seeking to compute her words. Clearing his throat, he says, "You're being too good to me again, Molly." His lips form a soft smile. "As you always are."

Her heart aches for a moment. There is a heavy, prominent force weighing down on her chest at the requited affection in his voice. Her real engagement - and his fake one - had not blunted her feelings for him. His relapse, his initial unresponsive attitude to her fury hadn't shaken her devotion. His lack of care only made her care all the more. Even with the title of murderer hung around his neck - nothing changed. Her love never wavered, it remained a constant companion that lived and thrived against all odds.

"Just being honest," she admits, shrugging her shoulders. In her mind, she also concedes that she cannot continue to deceive herself in to believing Sherlock will ever be anything other than the love of her life.

The taxi driver's sharp braking jerks her from her thoughts, the car coming to a halt by the roadside not far from the hospital, and Molly readies herself to quickly clamber out with a hurried thanks to the cab driver and a quick goodbye to Sherlock. She expects Sherlock will want to find somewhere to take refuge for the day. Possibly at the Watsons, though their house is a hardly a calming environment given a screaming baby is its newest occupant. The Yard is probably a more promising option, where he can find some semblance of peace among piles of old cold cases.

"Molly?"

One of her feet is on the pavement when she turns her head back to him expectantly. The purr of taxi cab engine vibrates through her. As does a feeling of fear. Fear that today will the day Sherlock finally realizes how pathetically deep her love for him runs and that he will be forced to dismiss her from his life. "Yeah?" Molly replies, and she hopes he does not pick up on the tremors in her voice.

"Would you mind terribly if I spent the day with you?" He asks her, blue eyes glancing up at her earnestly. "I'd rather not head back to Baker Street."

She can't help but acknowledge the flutters that erupt in her stomach. "Yes, erm, that would be okay," she answers, both her feet now finding solid ground.

Sherlock hastily paid the driver, hopping out of the cab, and the pair began to stroll towards the hospital entrance, revelling in the peaceful silence. There's no swarm of people squabbling to get a quote or an autograph or a picture from the World's Only Consulting Detective. It's blissfully quiet compared to Baker Street.

Sherlock's palm is a warm and solid weight on her back as they walk. Molly tries tremendously hard not to notice how natural his hand feels resting there and how her whole body relaxes under it.

She's aware what being comfortable with physical intimacy implies.

But they _aren't_ a couple, and for her heart to survive whatever else this plan entails, Molly has to accept they likely never will be.


End file.
